Love's Peril (Lord Trent Series) (18 page)

He adjusted his coat again, furtively displaying a large knife and the butt of a small dagger shoved up his sleeve.

He was armed to the teeth, equipped for any type of battle. How could she not worry over his true intentions?

He planned that she vanish from England. Would she ever actually make it to France? Was he an insane killer who preyed on young women? Would she be chopped into little pieces and her body never found?

Those sorts of gruesome stories circulated occasionally, but they came from London. The calamities happened to street urchins and trollops who were out in the dark. They didn’t happen to gently-bred females of good breeding and good family who’d grown up at quiet country estates.

The image of him as a brutal felon was so at odds with the man he seemed to be. He exuded menace, but not so she was afraid of him. It was merely that he didn’t like to be thwarted and was livid when his orders weren’t followed.

He was determined that she obey, and she was determined not to, but he was so much more stubborn than she was. How could she fight him? How could anyone?

“How did you find me?”

“Mrs. Patterson tattled.”

“She did not,”Sarah scoffed.

“She did—with no coaxing at all. It was simple to track you.” He nodded to the door. “Let’s go. We’ve missed today’s tide, but that’s the great thing about the ocean. There’s always another tide tomorrow.”

They engaged in a staring match she couldn’t win. Finally, she asked, “You don’t really care about me. Why pursue this?”

“You know why.”

“Because in the absurd fantasy world where you reside, you believe you own me?”

“Precisely.”

“I don’t agree to this. I never have.”

“So? You’re a woman, Sarah, and your eldest male relative gave you to me. I’m keeping you.”

“You. Are. Mad.”

“Your brother is too, but at least I’m offering to support you and to be kind. He bartered you away without a moment’s hesitation. After that little fiasco, you should be a tad more grateful to me.”

“Grateful!”she snorted, and she shook her head. “I won’t meekly comply. If you want me to leave, you’ll have to drag me out.”

“All right.”

He pulled back her chair and drew her to her feet. He was very strong, and she was very petite, so he lifted her with ease. No one who observed them would have noticed anything out of the ordinary.

An arm gripping her waist, he carried her out, her toes brushing the floor, but it looked as if she was walking of her own accord.

In the foyer, the proprietor went by, and she reached out to him.

“Would you help me?”she begged.

“With what, miss?”

“I’m being kidnapped.” At the strange comment, he frowned, and she swiftly added, “I have no idea who this man is. He accosted me inside, and he’s taking me away against my will.”

The proprietor’s frown deepened, and for the briefest instant, she thought he might intervene, but Mr. Sinclair flashed a rueful smile full of apology and regret.

“This is my wife, sir,”he lied.

“Your wife? She’s not wearing a ring.”

“I embarrassed to admit that she removes it.” He leaned in and—as if enormously shamed—murmured, “She runs away, and I’m constantly having to chase after her.”

“Runs away!”Sarah huffed. “I have no husband, and he’s a lunatic.”

“It’s a terrible business, sir,”Mr. Sinclair falsely confessed. “Her parents and I are at a loss as to how we can control her.”

He made a twirling motion by his ear, indicating that Sarah was deranged. The proprietor’s gaze softened, and he patted Sarah on the shoulder. “You should listen to your husband, dear.”

“He’s not my husband!”she insisted more loudly, which only made her sound as crazed as Sinclair had described her to be.

“I’m sorry she bothered you.” Mr. Sinclair slipped the proprietor a handful of bills. “I hope this will reimburse you for any trouble she caused.”

“She was no trouble,”the proprietor claimed, but he pocketed the money.

“Let’s go, darling,”Mr. Sinclair softly crooned. “If we hurry, we can be home in time for supper.”

He flashed another smile at the proprietor, one of masculine exasperation and commiseration, and he lifted Sarah again and strolled out with her. She was so stunned by the exchange that she didn’t protest.

His magnificent white stallion was waiting for him. He tossed her up, leapt up behind her, and they trotted away.

He was grinning, preening, delighted with how he’d bested her.

“I hate you,”she peevishly said.

“You do not.”

“I do.”

“You’re glad I found you. You’re glad I came.”

“I repeat: You are insane.”

“Yes, I am. I always have been. It’s what drives me. You shouldn’t forget it.”

With a whoop, he kicked the horse into a canter, and she grabbed onto its mane and held tight as they raced away.

CHAPTER TEN

“Tell me, how is London?”

“I don’t know. I’m not from London.”

“But you must have had occasional news.”

“Some.”

Sarah glanced over at the man who’d introduced himself as Mr. Reginald Thompson. In his early twenties, he was punctual, fussy, and verbose. Small in stature, tidy in his clothes and habits, he was accountant and factotum to Jean Pierre Sinclair—or whatever his name was. Sarah still wasn’t sure what she believed.

Mr. Thompson sighed. “I miss England every so often. Not enough to go back, mind you. And I would never leave Jean Pierre.”

They were in Mr. Sinclair’s castle—not a house, but a castle—on the French coast, so he was referred to by his French name rather than his English one. He was two different people, with two different personas, and she couldn’t decide which was the real one and which the façade.

“You’re very loyal to him,”Sarah said.

“Yes, absolutely. If he hadn’t rescued me”—Mr. Thompson fought down a shudder—“I can’t predict what would have happened.”

“Why were you in need of rescue?”

“I was kidnapped by slavers—”

“Slavers!”

“Yes, slavers, and with his being a…well…” His sentence trailed off, as if he realized he was about to divulge more than he should. “Let’s just say that when he jumped aboard the ship I was on, and I begged him to save me, he didn’t hesitate. I owe him my life.”

“It certainly sounds like it.”

“I would do anything for him,”Mr. Thompson passionately gushed.

His gaze could only be described as worshipful, as if Mr. Sinclair was a god who walked on water. At Bramble Bay, Miss Dubois and Mr. Hook had gazed at him the same way. Apparently, he attracted followers as faithfully as honey attracted a bee, and Sarah, herself, hadn’t been immune to his many charms.

Of course that was before she’d been forcibly removed from England and whisked to France against her will.

Mr. Thompson was escorting her to a private supper with Mr. Sinclair. The castle had been remodeled with modern comforts, but it had originally been a fortress meant to propel invaders, so there were odd twists and turns in the halls and on the stairs that made it easy to get lost.

So far, she hadn’t had a chance to explore, and even though she was furious with Mr. Sinclair for his high-handed behavior, she couldn’t deny her fascination—both with him and with the adventure that had been thrust upon her.

She’d never previously been on a ship, and as they’d crossed the Channel, she’d intended to be snippy and rude. But she’d been too intrigued by the maneuvering of the sails, by the sailors going about their duties.

Furtively, she’d watched Mr. Sinclair as he issued orders, as his crew worked together like a well-oiled machine.

He’d been busy with a thousand tasks and had ignored her for the entire trip, which had been irksome. She was angry and aggrieved and feeling incredibly abused, and it was galling that he didn’t seem to notice or care.

It had been dark when they’d docked, so she hadn’t been able to view his residence. She’d entered through the gates, the walls towering over her, so she hadn’t grasped its ancient design, hadn’t understood its magnificence.

During their arrival, Mr. Sinclair had been conspicuously absent, and his competent staff had immediately rushed to tend her. A gaggle of pretty housemaids had escorted her to a lovely suite, complete with writing desk and balcony. The furniture was elegant and understated, the feather mattress on the bed too plush for words.

She’d crawled onto it and had instantly fallen into a deep and wonderful sleep. When she’d awakened the next day, the maids were hovering with the news that Mr. Sinclair was still occupied, but that she would meet him for supper.

To the staff, this was an important and significant invitation that required significant preparation. Despite her reticence, despite her insistence that they didn’t need to fuss over her, she’d spent the afternoon in her room, being bathed and perfumed and lotioned and massaged.

They’d styled her hair in an intricate coif, attired her in a fabulous green gown that was sewn from a soft, flowing fabric she’d never seen previously. She had an expensive string of diamonds—that she assumed were real—hanging around her neck, diamond earrings dangling from her ears.

As they’d finally declared her ready, when she’d been allowed to look at herself in the mirror, she’d nearly fainted with surprise. The alteration was stunning. She appeared wealthy and beautiful and nothing like the ordinary, boring Miss Sarah Teasdale she’d been all her life.

“You’re not the only one who adores Mr. Sinclair,”she said to Mr. Thompson. “The servants seem particularly loyal.”

“That’s because he’s saved all of them from dire fates.”

“He inspires an enormous amount of devotion.”

“He does, he does.” Mr. Thompson nodded. “But then, considering everyone’s circumstances when rescued, it makes sense.”

“He must be very tough, very brave.”

“He is.”

“What, exactly, is his line of employment? How is it that he’s constantly sailing the seas and saving so many strangers?”

Mr. Thompson’s brows raised, his mind working, as if his response was a puzzle that had to be deciphered. They were at the top of a curving staircase, and he avoided answering her question by motioning to the closed door in front of them.

“Ah, here we are.” He knocked once to announce them and spun the knob. “Enjoy your supper, Miss Teasdale.”

“I’m sure I will,”she lied.

“I’ll catch up with you in the morning. We’ll reminisce about England.”

“I can’t wait,”she lied again.

He urged her over the threshold, shut the door behind her, and—she was certain—locked it so she couldn’t leave.

She didn’t check to find out if he had for she couldn’t bear to know. If she’d been locked in, what could she do about it? Pound and bang and shout until her hand was sore and her throat raw?

Evidently, she was in Mr. Sinclair’s private quarters, and the place was obviously arranged to provide maximum tranquility. The sitting room was done in soothing shades, the décor and furnishings generating an ambiance of ease and comfort. A cheery fire burned in the grate.

In the adjoining room, she could see his bedchamber, could see his large bed. It had a canopy over the top and a carved headboard fit for a king. She yanked away, refusing to gape, refusing to admit what it indicated.

What was the true reason she’d been brought to him? Was her ruination about to commence?

There was an open archway that led out onto a balcony. A brown-skinned man stood there, wearing a turban and flowing trousers. The house was full of peculiar characters, of all nationalities and colors, many of whom did not speak English or French. It was as if Mr. Sinclair had sailed the world and plucked up a collection of novel, foreign people to serve him.

The man grinned and bowed, gesturing for her to approach, to follow him onto the balcony. She walked over, and he pulled on a curtain and ushered her outside.

Finally, she was face to face with Mr. Sinclair. He was seated at a small table set for two. The linen was blindingly white, the silver polished until it gleamed. Red wine had been poured.

Liveried footmen hovered off to the side. Behind him, over the balcony railing, she could see the bay, the village curved around it, his ship and many others anchored in the harbor.

With the sun dropping in the west, the vista was spectacular, the scenery quaint and picturesque. It could have been a painting, an artist’s rendering of a perfect spot on the French coast.

Mr. Sinclair stared at her, and she stared back. The moment was very odd, very dreamlike. She was overcome by an impression of familiarity, as if she’d always known him, as if they’d shared intimate suppers a thousand times previous.

The dashing Frenchman had returned. His white shirt was meticulously embroidered, tons of lace on his cravat and sleeves. He was wearing another expensive coat, but in a green hue that matched her gown. The hem was stitched in gold flowers, and in light of the opulence of his home, she suspected it was real gold thread.

His blond hair was loose, curled on his shoulders, the green of his coat enhancing his striking emerald eyes.

He was such a feast for her female senses, and she felt herself softening toward him. She couldn’t wait to dine, merely so she could ogle him all evening. She warned herself to buck up, to be wary, but couldn’t muster any genuine affront.

At the sight of her, his hot gaze was inflamed. He studied her carefully, as if eager to ensure his servants had put her in the right costume.

The gown fit like a glove, as if it had been specifically designed for her, and she took some comfort from the fact that it couldn’t possibly have belonged to Miss Dubois. His mistress was much taller and broader across the hips and chest, so thankfully, Sarah hadn’t been attired in his whore’s clothes.

His assessment complete, he pushed back his chair and stood.

“
Chérie,
you are so beautiful.” He motioned to her. “Come.”

The pretty compliment was too much for her. She’d received so few of them in her life, and she could have dawdled all night, listening to his flattery. How was it that he managed to simultaneously terrorize and awe?